


Because It Matters To Him

by LordOfThePies88



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, College Student Stiles, Established Relationship, M/M, Steter Secret Santa, age gap is acknowledged, stiles likes taking pictures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 12:14:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13166706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordOfThePies88/pseuds/LordOfThePies88
Summary: Peter knew, or at least he’d hoped, that one day they’d be more open in public and maybe even start socializing as a couple, but he wasn’t expecting this – Stiles speeding home from the end of his third semester at Berkley, launching himself to his knees on their bed, and holding out the ugliest Christmas sweater Peter had ever seen in his goddamn life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CinnamonLily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CinnamonLily/gifts).



Stiles and Peter don’t necessarily _hide_ their relationship, but they’re not wildly open about it. The pack from Beacon Hills had been their characteristically judgmental selves when the pair had first gotten together. They just couldn’t seem to get over Peter’s small history of serial killings. Stiles had gotten over the string of murders, and Peter had gotten over being Molotov-cocktailed by Stiles, so Peter deduced the rest of the pack simply had a grudge problem.  


Even though they’ve moved into a new city and a shared penthouse, they’re both aware there’s still an age gap that earns them sideways glances and unfounded assumptions. Peter doesn’t like dealing with the looks, not on behalf of himself, but on behalf of Stiles. Judgment is something Peter is used to and he wears it as comfortably as his favourite sweater, but Stiles doesn’t deserve it, so they keep things low-key.  


Peter knew, or at least he’d hoped, that one day they’d be more open in public and maybe even start socializing as a couple, but he wasn’t expecting _this_ – Stiles speeding home from the end of his third semester at Berkley, launching himself to his knees on their bed, and holding out the ugliest Christmas sweater Peter had ever seen in his goddamn life.  


“You don’t exist,” Stiles pants, pushing the sweater towards Peter and knee-walking closer, bunching up the blanket as he moves.  


“Pardon?” Peter cocks his head and puts his laptop on the bed beside him.  


“Because of your – ” Stiles gestures with an open hand at his own face in erratic zig-zags and half-circles, “ – the eye thing with the camera, and nobody’s ever met you, you don’t exist!” His eyes are pleading and he shoves the sweater once again at Peter, bouncing a little on the mattress.  


Peter reluctantly takes the offensive sweater and glares at it. The big gold bow sewn – or maybe glued – onto the itchy red wool glares right back at him. “I’m not following. Are you expecting me to wear this disaster to, what, be noticeable in public next to you? Do you expect me to go grocery shopping in this?”  


“No, it’s – there’s a thing – I wanted you to – I know we don’t really but I w – ”  


“Stiles.” Peter reaches out, takes Stiles’ twitching hands, and pulls him in close. “Breathe.” They press their foreheads together, close their eyes, and take a few slow breaths in unison. Peter knows Stiles wasn’t near a panic attack quite yet, but the acrid scent of anxiety was starting to make the back of his throat burn. “What is it you want, love?”  


Stiles takes a couple more breaths before he opens his eyes again and sits back on his heels. “Some of my friends from class are having an ugly Christmas sweater party and they said they’re going to try to hook me up with someone because you don’t exist.” Stiles shrugs. “I talk about you all the time but, y’know, pics or it didn’t happen. I know we were keeping things on the down-low, but maybe it’s time we…”  


“So, you want me to come to this party. With you.”  


Stiles nods slowly.  


“Wearing this.” Peter crinkles his nose at the horrible piece of clothing in his lap.  


Stiles gets a cruel twinkle in his eye and grins, nodding again, a little more eager this time.  


Peter heaves a sigh and begins a staring contest with the gaudy bow. If he’s honest with himself, he’s more hesitant about putting on the monstrosity of a sweater than joining Stiles at a college party. It’s only when that sour anxiety smell seeps back into the air does he realize he’s been thinking too long. “Yes, of course. I’d love to be your date.”  


“Yes!” Stiles leaps up and pumps a fist above his head, bouncing the bed so much that Peter’s laptop catches a little air.  


“When’s the party?”  


Stiles pulls his phone from his pocket and checks the time. “Um, starts in like, an hour?”  


Peter rolls his eyes. “For all your talent in planning against lethal supernatural threats, you’re terrible at planning for social events.” He swings his legs out of bed and goes to leave the room with the ugliest of ugly sweaters balled in his fist. In the doorway, he pauses and glances over his shoulder. He eyes Stiles’ very much neither hideous nor Christmas-themed cardigan. “If I’m expected to wear this, what are you going in?”  


“Oh god, it’s so funny, you’re going to love it.”  


“Am I?” Peter smirks a little because he’s probably going to hate it, but he loves Stiles, and that’s enough to get past decidedly unfunny fashion choices.  


Stiles pulls a red sweater out of his backpack and holds it up, grinning ear-to-ear. Peter loves that smile and the way it makes Stiles’ amber eyes sparkle. It’s almost enough to distract him from the garment in his partner’s hands.  


Almost.  


It’s simple, and not nearly as ugly as the thing Peter’s expected to wear, but if it doesn’t make him roll his eyes anyway. The word “Balls” is written in gold cursive across the chest with two ornaments snuggled next to each other underneath. It’s ridiculous, the joke is borderline juvenile, and it’s just so fitting of the man on Peter’s bed in front of him that it makes him laugh when he turns away.  


He means to say, “you’re an idiot,” but what comes out instead is, “Come on, love. We should pick up wine on the way, I’d like to make a good impression.”  


Peter’s never wanted to make a good impression before. Not really. Not for the sake of someone other than himself. It catches him off guard a little makes his head spin for a moment. It also makes warmth spread in his chest, so he decides it must be a good thing.  


He looks at the sweater in his hand, then at Stiles who staggers through the condo after him, his own sweater pulled halfway on but still over his eyes. Stiles grins widely at him once he gets his head through the collar. Relief is written across his face, and both affection and nerves weave their way through his natural scent.  


Peter realizes it was a big deal for Stiles to ask this of him, that he’d probably been stressing over it for longer than he’d let on, so Peter decides he’s going to do this right. He chucks the abomination of stitches and gold ribbon onto the couch as he passes. Good impressions are important. “We need to stop for wine, and a new sweater.”


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles sulks about Peter’s sweater choice for half the car ride, but disappointment over the simple light-string design gives way to anxious fidgeting and declarations that they should just turn around.  


Peter pulls over two blocks from their destination and looks at the young man next to him. Even when Stiles is all nervous energy and messy hair and borderline aggressive lip-chewing, he’s still strikingly beautiful. Peter would deny it outright if asked, but couldn’t deny to himself that part of the reason he’d agreed to join was that he couldn’t stand the thought of someone else thinking they could have Stiles. They didn’t deserve him. Not that Peter thought he did either, but Stiles had chosen him and he wasn’t about to take that for granted.  


“We should just turn around,” Stiles says between lip bites.  


“Is that really what you want?”  


“I don’t know.” He really doesn’t. There’s no lie in his heartbeat.  


“Why don’t we go and try to enjoy ourselves. If we get one look you don’t like, I tear them all to shreds and we go home and drink whatever wine is left.”  


“One single look?”  


“Say the word and I’ll kill them all.” Peter smiles reassuringly and Stiles seems to ease. He won’t really kill them, probably, but the strength of the statement is what matters here. Stiles needs to know that tonight is on his terms. These are his peers and his nerves.  


Stiles gives a curt nod. “Let’s hope they do it early in the night so we still have wine left.”  


“God, I love you.”  


They park across the street from a house with so many sparkling lights, it must be doubling the residents’ electrical bill. A bubbly girl with pretty, blonde hair answers the door. She smells a bit like alcohol when she flings herself into Stiles’ arms for a warm and comfortable hug. They say their hellos over the other’s shoulders then she pulls back, catches an eyeful of Peter, and her jaw drops.  


Stiles’ heartbeat skips.  


Peter didn’t think he’d be tearing people to shreds this soon.  


Before he can say a word in defense of their relationship, the girl’s eyes light up and a smile splits her face.  


“You exist!” She throws herself at Peter for a hug too. “Oh my god,” she squawks into his chest, and Peter can’t help but send Stiles a look that he himself isn’t sure what is trying to convey. “I’ve heard so much about you!”  


Stiles just shrugs.  


Peter turns his gaze back to the girl ushering them inside. “Good things only, I hope.”  


“Great things! I’m Becka, by the way.”  


“Lovely to meet you, Becka.” Peter hands her the bottle of wine.  


She takes it, cradling it carefully and examining the label.  


“It’s a twenty-thirteen Bouchard Père and Fils – ” Peter stops himself when Becka gives Stiles a wide-eyed look. “It’s a pinot noir. I hope you like it, Stiles wasn’t sure if you were a fan of red or white.”  


She gives Stiles another look. This time it’s one with a thin-lipped smile, raised brows, and an approving nod she thinks is subtle. Stiles grins and hangs his head a little, though he doesn’t look – or smell – embarrassed. Peter takes that as a good sign.  


He tries to peer past her, through the front hall into the rest of the house, while he and Stiles hang up their coats. The lighting’s a little low, the music could stand to be turned down, and someone’s had a few cigarettes in the past hour, but the overwhelming mood of the place is happy.  


“Spoilsport here – ” Stiles pokes Peter in the shoulder, “ – wouldn’t wear the sweater you lovingly picked out for him.”  


Becka makes a winey ‘aw’ sound. “What a butt. Hey, can you take this?” She hands the bottle to Stiles. “I think there are some glasses in the kitchen and Adam just started a game of Cards Against Humanity if you wanted to play.”  


Stiles takes the bottle and hesitantly leaves Becka and Peter alone in the front hall.  


Her posture immediately changes and the bubbly façade falls. “So, you’re Peter,” Becka says.  


“That’s what it reads on my ID.”  


She puts her hands on her hips and leans back to scan him head-to-toe. She’s clearly taken it upon herself to play the role of protective friend. If she were a wolf, she would make an excellent alpha. “You really exist.”  


“So it would seem.” He doesn’t shrink under her stare, but he thinks it would work if he weren’t, well, him. It’s almost impressive. “Though I wonder what version of me he’s told stories about.”  


“He says you’d probably kill anyone who hurt him.”  


“Without question.”  


“You don’t look like you would.”  


“Looks can be deceiving.” Peter knows the answer was quick and easy, and he takes comfort in the fact that Becka doesn’t know why.  


“Who made the first move?”  


Peter can feel the judgement before he sees it in her eyes. This is the pivotal question for her. This is where she decides if Peter is a creep or just happens to have fallen in love with a younger man, and his response will form Stiles’ entire social circle’s opinion of their relationship.  


He gives the answer with his typical smug smile and a raised chin. “Stiles made the first move well after his eighteenth birthday. He also made the second move. And the third. I’m aware of the age gap, Becka, and I know how this might look. I know I’ve remained hidden to you and the rest of his friends, but questions like the one you just asked and the implied questions behind them are the reason I do so. We’ve had all the discussions I’m sure you can think of and then some, including but not limited to marriage, kids, and future plans, so you can put your claws away and I won’t have to pull out mine.”  


There’s a moment when neither of them speak, staring each other down. It’s tense and Peter wants to walk away because usually he wouldn’t have patience for this bullshit, but he stands firm.  


“Alright.” Becka visibly relaxes. “Did you really move across the state and buy a condo just so he could have free room and board?”  


Peter chuckles a little at that. It’s half true. “I bought a new penthouse so I could stay with him when he went to university. The motivation was purely selfish, I assure you.”  


Becka seems to like that answer because she smiles wide, takes his hand, and pulls him deeper into the house.  
“The hot older boyfriend exists,” Becka announces to the crowd. Half of them practically snap their necks to look, and half of them don’t seem to care. The ones who are looking are probably Stiles’ university friends, and the other half are probably the pool of potential candidates for the hook-up the friends had planned.  


Becka lifts his hand in the air and Peter gives all who are looking his warmest smile and a brief wave. Normally he would have rolled his eyes and walked away by now, but this matters to Stiles, so it matters to him. The crowd that’s looking is hushed and it’s only been a second of quiet, but Stiles has already joined his side. His heartbeat is frighteningly fast. One man, tall and lanky, stands from where he was dealing black and white cards around a cheap wood table. It’s probably Adam.  


He stares at Peter for a little too long, then looks at Stiles with raised eyebrows, and Peter thinks for a second time he hadn’t expected to have to kill anyone this soon.  


“Well done, Stilinski!”  


Cheers and exclamations of congratulations erupt among those who’d been invested in the situation. A couple of them even clap or shout “hi Peter.” He says hi back even though he doesn’t know their names. Becka releases his hand and slides into a chair at the dining table, claiming a stack of cards.  


“Well,” Peter breathes, “that was fun.”  


“Is that what you’d call it?” Stiles guides Peter to the kitchen and hands him a glass.  
Peter slips a small vial of wolfsbane extract from his pocket and tips a drop into his wine. “We’ve dealt with far more frightening things than a group of college friends, Stiles.”  


“Yeah, but we usually can kill the frightening thing if it hurts us. I like this frightening thing and would prefer to keep it.” Stiles sips from his drink and leans into Peter’s side. 

“I know Becka can be a bit… much. Thank you for putting up with that.”  


“Only for you, love.” Peter presses a kiss into Stiles’ hair.


	3. Chapter 3

Things are winding down around one in the morning. The bottle of wine has been long finished, the buzz has worn off, and someone finally turned the music down.  
Peter is on the couch talking to an art major named Lainey about expensive cars when Stiles shouts Peter’s name from across the room.  


“Yes?” Peter doesn’t much like the way Stiles said his name. It sounds an awful lot like the way he says it when Peter is in trouble. Lots of trouble.  


“Outside. Now.” Stiles is holding his phone. The screen is lit up against his palm and Peter wonders if he’s sent any vaguely threatening texts to Scott recently.  


“Excuse me, Lainey.” He gets off the couch to follow Stiles, who’s already at the front door, but turns back before slipping out of sight. “Remind me when I get back to give you a ride in my Shelby. She’s gorgeous.”  


Lainey shoots him a wink and thumbs up.  


Peter finds himself standing on the sidewalk with Stiles, who’s got his arms wrapped around himself and is already starting to shiver.  


“What did I do? I thought I was behaving rather – ”  


“What the hell is this?” Stiles shoves his phone in Peter’s face, much too close for Peter to actually see what’s on the screen.  


He gently pushes Stiles’ hand back a few inches and takes it in.  


Stiles has Instagram open, and it seems Becka had posted a picture of the two of them at some point in the night. Judging by the caption, it was for evidence that Peter does in fact exist. It looks like a normal candid picture, which is probably the problem. His eyes are not doing the lens-flare that Stiles thought had prevented him from ever getting a picture.  


Peter picks the route of playing dumb. “It’s a candid. Did you want a posed picture? I think I saw mistletoe, we could even post one of us kissing – ”  


“How did she get a picture of you?” Stiles’ voice is tight and his scent reeks of hurt. “I can never get one of you, I have no pictures of you. I never get to look at you unless you’re next to me.” He looks like he might cry.  


Peter didn’t know pictures were important to Stiles.  


“She didn’t use flash,” Peter says, voice quiet.  


Stiles looks dumbfounded. “It’s just the flash?”  


“Sometimes if a light shines at the wrong time when there’s no flash, but it’s mostly just the flash that does it.”  


Stiles drops his phone into his pocket. His teeth are chattering together and Peter wants to hold him.  


“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” Peter opens his arms, expecting to get rejected but ever hopeful.  


Stiles frowns at him and he doesn’t move, but he also doesn’t lean away.  


“I didn’t know pictures were important to you.” Peter doesn’t lower his arms because Stiles still hasn’t moved away and he’s looking at the invitation like he might take it. “Besides, you always got horrible angles. I figured the lens flare would save you from looking at those disaster photos.”  


“You’re pretty at any angle,” Stiles grumbles.  


“Hm. True.” Peter smirks and Stiles curls himself into Peter’s arms. Peter knows this isn’t over, and that’s why they’re not going inside yet, but he takes it as a good sign. “I’m sorry, love.” He smooths his hand over Stiles’ hair and kisses his forehead. “Really, if I’d known it mattered to you I would have told you.”  


“There are things trying to kill us, kill _you_ , all the time. What if one day all I have is a picture?”  


Somehow, he hadn’t considered that. “You’re right.” He kisses Stiles’ forehead again. “You’re very right. I’m sorry.”  


“We don’t talk about it a lot, but I’m scared I’ll lose you one day. You’ve come back from the dead once already, I don’t know if that’s a trick you can pull off again.”  


Peter pushes Stiles out and holds him out by the shoulders. He looks into those beautiful amber eyes and says, with the utmost sincerity, “Stiles, nothing of this world could stop me from rising from the dead a hundred times over if it means I get to come back to you.”  


Stiles wraps his arms around Peter’s neck and kisses him. His lips are a little chilly and he still smells sad, but Peter kisses back twice as hard.  


Peter’s fingers are woven in Stiles’ hair and he’s considering carrying him somewhere more private when Becka opens the door and shouts that they’re missing cupcakes.  


“Be there in a sec,” Stiles hollers back. They hold each other with their foreheads leaned together. Stiles isn’t shivering anymore, and Peter thinks he’s been forgiven, but he knows he can make it better.  


“You want to take a picture?”  


“What? Really?”  


Peter nods, the tips of his nose brushing past Stiles’.  


”Yes!” Stiles jumps back and bumps into someone’s car. He’s already got his phone out and ready before Peter’s turned to get some decent lighting from the house.  


Peter figures the eight different strings of LED lights in blue-white and vibrant green may not be the most flattering for his skin, but it’ll get the job done for now. He gives a couple poses, some with smiles and some with smoldering looks, and Stiles is beaming the entire time.  


Not for a lack of trying, but he can’t remember anything small he’s done that has made Stiles this happy. Big things, yes. Peter is good at big things. Big gifts, big romantic gestures, big vacations. He’s got the time and money for it, but while Stiles both loves and deserves the extravagance, it seems in the process he’s forgotten about the little things. Looking at Stiles now, as he swipes through all the pictures he’s taken and makes a different kind of happy face for each one, Peter is reminded just how meaningful those small things can be. He makes a mental note to look for more chances to indulge in them.  


They return inside to the chorus of people singing a Christmas song, specifically some off-key rendition of Frosty the Snowman.  


Peter partakes in a cupcake piled high with thick store-bought icing and sprinkles that taste vaguely of sweetened plasticine. Stiles partakes in two.  


Half an hour later they say their goodbyes, but not before Peter takes Lainey for a quick spin in his Shelby as promised. As they slip out the door, he quietly gets Becka to send him the picture without a filter. The past eight hours had been a turning point for their relationship in so many ways.  


Peter fully intends to memorialize the night by putting it in a frame on their dresser.


End file.
